


Salezheio

by Anonymous



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Case Fic, Couriers, M/M, Post-Canon, Violence, minor original character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8873986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sometimes Csevet was sure that all he needed was Edrehasivar's approval, and never mind anyone else's. The rest of the time he was not so foolish.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Piscaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/gifts).



> We hope you enjoy! It was a pleasure to write for you :) With many thanks to our beta, [tba], and cheerleaders, [tba].

The letter arrived with the curled edges characteristic of those pneumatically sent, sealed with the signet of the Netada, a minor house, and written in a hand Csevet did not recognise. He took it and all of the others from Rea, one of his undersecretaries, and began sorting them into piles on the table, avoiding the little plates of breakfast food that Edrehasivar had yet to touch. The Netadeise letter went into the pile of those relating to Edrehasivar’s current grievance, the latest hurdle in the construction of the Wisdom Bridge – that being which mine, owned by which family, should be their primary source for iron ore, and which ironworks, owned by a whole other set of families, should be contracted to smelt it. There had been a scramble to buy up the iron industry before the Wisdom Bridge plans had been made official; afterwards, the scramble had turned bitter. The very real possibility of escaping the ranks of merely land-rich had been more than enough to strain and break multitudes of alliances between dozens of pocket barons, and several more prominent nobles.   
  
Edhrehasivar was looking at the pile in clear dismay, until he glanced up and saw that Csevet had noticed. He looked away quickly, and took a grim bite of toast as he did so. His slender throat bobbed as he swallowed, slate grey skin turned warm in the firelight. His long fingers and prominent knuckles, cast in shadow, made a stark contrast with the pale golden bread.  
  
Csevet looked back down to the letters spread in front of him, fast enough his earrings marked the movement with silvery noise, and hoped Edrehasivar was too distracted to notice. Rubbing his eyes, he forced himself back into reading and sorting the correspondence in front of him. He’d stayed up well into the previous night – nights – had done so for over two weeks now – researching bridge engineering and the iron industry in a desperate attempt to sort the spurious claims from the real. He had sought out and begged information from the royal libraries, from universities, from visiting Barizheise merchants who had previously bought iron in the Ethuveraz. His undersecretaries had written up what must account to whole volumes of it, and barely complained whilst doing so. He was blessed with them; the iron industry was very far from their jobs.  
  
The iron industry was, by all accounts, very far from his own job. Edrehasivar didn’t know that, or, more likely, he didn’t care, and Csevet did not mean to let him be persuaded otherwise. He wondered sometimes what the rest of the court must think of him – of them, he and Edrehasivar, working so close together.  
  
Oh, how they must seethe.  
  
  
  
  
  
That night, as Csevet worked at the desk in his room – his own room! He still marvelled at the luxury – Rana dropped by to visit. Rana rarely asked permission beforehand, but he was rarely offended when Csevet told him to leave, and when Csevet was particularly busy he often did no more than fall asleep on Csevet's bed. He, too, enjoyed the privileges Edrehasivar's principal secretary were afforded.  
  
This night he was not looking for a private place to sleep. He brought fresh bread and curds, which they ate together, and then sat on the bed and watched Csevet's back as he worked.  
  
'Why do you think the Cambeshada are suddenly throwing their lot in with the Erethanada?' Csevet said, more to himself than Rana, as he stared down at his work.  
  
'The Erethanada? Aren't they that family out by Csedo? In the dusts.'  
  
Csevet hummed an affirmative. 'They're trying to push south but it’s pissing off too many people.'  
  
'I'd piss off people too if it got me out of the dusts,' Rana said. Csevet snorted, but his reply was stalled as he started searching for a particular letter, and the conversation died. His lamp started to flicker and Csevet filled up the oil. There was a shuffling sound as Rana lay down.  
  
'I got a red letter, the other day. From Beloran Ducherrem to Sonaris Anthuvin,' he said. Csevet stopped writing and turned around. 'It was actually pretty good. Almost got _me_ going, even.'  
  
'That is... going to end very badly,' Csevet said. 'For a lot of people.'  
  
'Right?' Rana grinned. 'I want Anthuvin's letter coming back, just to see what he wrote. Might be able to get it.'  
  
A pause. 'Shouldst have told me that?' Csevet said. Rana shrugged, looking up at the ceiling.  
  
'Don't see why not. Not asking for anything back. Not now all thy secrets are–' he waved his hand in a vague gesture. His playful tone of voice had gone. 'His Serenity's secrets. Life and death of the Ethuveraz and all.'  
  
'Ducherrem and Anthuvin are hardly petty gossip,' Csevet said, but it sounded weak even to himself.  
  
Rana said something and it took Csevet a second to realise he'd switched to Barizhin. Csevet knew some Barizhin – Rana had been the one to teach him most of it – but more in writing than speaking. Rana had said something about working, and a phrase about doors that Csevet didn't understand.  
  
'I shouldn't distract thee from thy work,' Rana said, this time in Ethuverazhin.  
  
'It's not – this isn't that important.' That was a lie, and he still needed to find space for two additional audiences Edrehasivar had permitted within the next couple of days, but he could wake earlier than usual and do it all then. Rana didn't need to know that.  
  
Rana made a noise in the back of his throat – not quite disbelief, not quite acceptance. He rolled over onto his side to face Csevet. 'Come to bed,' he said.  
  
There was something in his voice. Csevet hesitated. 'Not now.'  
  
Rana flopped over onto his front, turning his head away to face the wall. After a moment Csevet turned back and resumed searching for the letter he'd misplaced, finding it still inside his folio case, and got back to work. Half an hour later Rana got up to leave.  
  
Csevet caught him by the sleeve of his jacket. 'Good night,' he said.  
  
Rana smiled and squeezed Csevet's forearm gently. 'Good night,' he said, put on his shoes, and left.  
  
  
  
  
  
The next morning Csevet sat down with Edrehasivar in an optimistic attempt to finish reading the correspondence and make a tentative first decision to present to the Corazhas on who should be hired for the bridge’s iron. Csevet stretched his legs under the table; the little bubble of pride as he of all people was looked to for guidance by Edrehasivar, Ethuverazis Zhas, was more than enough to blow away the cobwebs of yet another night of too little sleep. The pride had grown from white cloth and a title into something deeper, unnamed, and Csevet only too happy to leave it that way.  
  
The letter from yesterday, sealed with the signet of the Netada of northern Thu-Tetar, was one of the last Csevet opened. The Netada didn’t own any iron themselves, but they did own a fair number of factories that made extensive use of wrought iron, both in products and factory infrastructure, and as such had built their wealth on trade agreements with the Uterimada, whose primary business came through moving iron from south to north. The Netada had a lot to lose but very little to bargain with, and until now had not made contact with Edrehasivar with regards to the matter.  
  
_To his Imperial Serenity, Edrehasivar VII, greetings,_  
  
_We stole this signet a long time ago. We want to warn you. About Csevet Aisava._  
  
Csevet's ribcage squeezed painfully around his heart. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the ground move, trying to trip him up. Then he opened his eyes, made sure his ears were correctly positioned, and kept reading.  
  
_Mer Aisava is marnis. He likes goblin-folk. He is dangerous to you, Serenity. He is a degenerate and will try to seduce you. His first lover was Rana Keshora. He is of goblin blood. When he was only fourteen the boy lost his virginity to Mer Aisava. Rana Keshora is still a courier now and he and Mer Aisava still meet in Mer Aisava’s room at night. Mer Aisava has had several other sexual partners as well as Rana Keshora. He seduced many noble men when he was a courier. He had the lover Ithu Dora for over a year when he was eighteen. Several times when Mer Aisava was twenty years old he had sexual intercourse with Ithu Dora and Rana Keshora at the same time. Mer Aisava likes to be penetrated anally. He is excited by being restrained and hurt during sex. He is willing to hurt others. Another lover is Zhitha Uildan. Zhitha Uildan and Ithu Dora are both part goblin. This is a clear trend. He is violent. We are frightened for your safety, Serenity._  
  
The letter ended abruptly. No remarks as to who the concerned sender was, of course. Csevet covered it with his hands and glanced at Edrehasivar, who was reading, the crease between his brows  indicating his deep concentration. Neither Cala nor Beshelar were looking at Csevet directly, but nothing in the room would escape their notice, surely.  
  
No, that was being foolish. He would slip it into his folio case and no one would blink an eye at the action, even if everyone were looking right at him. There were countless documents and letters and pages of notes he kept hold of that no one else even thought to look at. Csevet folded the letter and tucked it away behind some scrawled remarks from yesterday’s audiences. He picked up his pen and stared at the topmost page of notes he was currently writing.  
  
He could not show Edrehasivar the letter. Whilst His Serenity had shown only compassion for Mer Celehar, he told himself, and had continued to work with Mer Celehar and show him no less regard for what he’d been told, this was not the same. Csevet’s heart was racing. He felt sick. Even if Edrehasivar might show compassion to one who had tragically lost a lover, or to marnis individuals, that was an entirely different story to one whose degenerate desires involved him personally.  
  
Yet even if nothing changed between Edrehasivar and himself – and it would change, of course it would – he still could not do it. An enquiry as to who had sent the letter would be opened. The letter would be passed around and read and dissected and not only he but Rana, Ithu and Zhitha would all be exposed. It would be the end of all four of them. The rumours of why exactly he had been hired in the first place, already present but waiting for fuel – and this, what fuel – would harm His Serenity’s reputation immeasurably.  
  
No. It wouldn’t do Edrehasivar any damage to never receive this letter. This kind of obscenity was far below Edrehasivar’s time. Anyone would agree to that. He was doing no wrong by taking it.  
  
Csevet wrote out a couple of lines, taking down the latest promises of quality iron yet another family was sending. He made a mistake and stopped.  
  
Who, then, had sent the letter? It had come with the Netada’s seal, but Csevet knew only too well how easy it was to steal or forge seals. It had come by pneumatic tube, so from somewhere within the Untheileneise Court, but where? There were dozens of places to drop off letters, and the pneumatic tubes weren’t so well guarded that a person who knew the system couldn’t slip in something less official. The wording was stilted, no doubt an artefact of keeping it from being matched to the author’s own, and Csevet could only assume the hand was faked as well.  
  
His thoughts spun around and around in his head. Oh, Salezheio’s tits, and he’d been so confidant only minutes earlier. He drank some more tea and immediately wished that he hadn’t. His stomach churned.  
  
It would be fine. He would destroy the letter and let that be that. Only, the author knew so much about him. How? Was this some kind of elaborate prank? No, no, it couldn’t be. Who, then, would want to ruin him and not care for the ruin of the three others named? That didn't narrow it down – anyone from those of royal blood to merchants of first generation wealth wouldn't care for the baseborn. Unless the author were aiming at one of Rana, Ithu or Zhitha, and he was merely a means to that end, but no. Involving the emperor was utter madness if they only wanted to get to a courier, as all three of his old lovers were. Was it an attempt at Edrehasivar’s honour? If so, why sent it to the one who was most invested in covering it up?  
  
The author had to be directing it at him. They had to have bought the information on him from someone close to him, or close to Rana, Ithu or Zhitha. There. That was a start. He would find and talk to each of them. He would also ask the Alcethmeret’s pneumatic girls for any advice on whether it was possible to track down the origin of the letter, assuming it had indeed come from the pneumatic system and not placed so it would merely look like it. And he could ask if they’d heard any news of ill feelings towards himself personally. Any more news than was already baseline.  
  
Csevet crossed out his mistake on the notes and started again. This person had done so much research and yet not taken into account the fact that he, as Edrehasivar’s principal secretary, dealt with a large percentage of his letters and was thus likely to have intercepted it before Edrehasivar found and read it. Or was it not normal for the principal secretary to open and read the emperor’s letters, even if leaving the personal ones to his eyes only?  
  
He didn’t know. He could ask Talezhis, Varenechibel’s old principal secretary. Talezhis was now technically Csevet’s undersecretary, since Edrehasivar had so blithely made it so, but nobody but His Serenity ever dared call him that. For all that he was a treasure-trove of experience and knowledge, Csevet avoided speaking to him. If Csevet asked Talezhis, he would have to be subtle.  
  
So: Rana, Ithu and Zhitha, the pneumatic girls, and possibly Talezhis. It wouldn’t hurt to also ask Echelo if Varenechibel had ever received scandalous messages, and what he’d done with them.  
  
Very well. This was his plan. This he could work with – and if it was akin to balancing on a tightrope? Then it was nothing he hadn’t done before.  
  
As for why’d they’d sent it – was it any of the countless people who disliked the fact that he, baseborn courier, had the emperor’s ear? Was it someone he’d offended personally? Was it someone trying to replace him with a secretary who would guide Edrehasivar down paths they preferred? Or were they meaning to later blackmail him for the same effect?  
  
The day crawled by agonisingly slowly. Csevet, mentally and extravagantly thanking his own prudence, had already made his decision on whom Edrehasivar should go with for iron, and as far as he could make out none of the morning’s letters changed that. It made most sense, he told Edrehasivar, to source the wrought iron from the Ezhada, who already had established trade agreements to buy raw material from the Cathimada. Not only were the surveyor’s reports for both of them excellent, and there existed already the roads and dockyards to get the iron from Cathimada to Ezhada to the bridge, but the two families were tied by several marriages and unlikely to decide they didn’t want to work with each other any more. Edrehasivar had agreed with Csevet’s choice, and half of Csevet was deathly afraid he relied on his word far too much for the safety of either of them, and half of him was alight with pride.   
  
Then, with Edrehasivar’s main troubles out of his way, gone to have dinner with Arbelan Zhasan, Csevet was free to focus on his own troubles. Of the three mentioned in the letter Rana was definitely still in the Untheileneise Court, so Csevet sent off a page to hand a note to the girls at the Alcethmeret’s pneumatic station; they could then, when the next courier came in to drop off letters, request Rana be brought to them and then personally send him up to Csevet. A particularly inefficient method, but neither the page nor the other couriers would know it was Csevet asking for Rana, and the pneumatic girls were hired for their reticence.   
  
He wondered what Rana would think he was after. He hadn’t sought him out in a long time.  
  
The letter stayed tucked away in his folio case. He’d need to destroy it in private, at any rate, except that perhaps he should ask Rana to look over it first. Of all people he trusted Rana the most with himself, and besides, there was nothing in it that Rana didn’t already know. As for the warning, Rana would laugh at it and not realise just how close it hit – or he would realise–  
  
Perhaps he shouldn’t show Rana. Better to get rid of it now and remove all risk of it falling into the wrong hands. But if nothing happened after this letter, someone so audacious as to send it would surely not hesitate to repeat their offence, or worse. No. It would be foolish to bury it and pretend it hadn’t happened. He needed to act, and now.  
  
The day ended, finally, Edrehasivar with his Second Nohecharei moving off to his bedroom in a little procession, his eyes half-lidded and ears drooping with exhaustion. Csevet packed up his things and, correcting his own ears, went to find Rea.  
  
‘How are things going,’ he asked politely, finding the man in one of the rooms down near the servants’ quarters that had been converted into an office. Rea had been put in charge of curating the various complaints about living space in the Untheileneise Court, which was suffering overpopulation in some areas and the reverse problem in others.  
  
‘Like driving a pig out of his hole,’ Rea said, shaking his head. His hair, which he let down whenever even half-appropriate, fell in a waterfall down his shoulders. ‘Everyone’s complaining but how dare we suggest anyone move. And people are starting to use the unoccupied rooms without authorisation, not that we can ever catch them at it.’  
  
‘We’re afraid you’re not going to like what we’re about to say, then.’  
  
‘More work? Give it to us; something that’s not damned ancestral homes and how much the new wallpaper cost will be a holiday.’  
  
‘Good to hear. We need to schedule Edrehasivar an appointment with Ambassador Gormened before Tuesday, but not during Monday morning. He says it will take perhaps an hour, so someone else needs to be moved back – if you could find out who, and send them as well as the ambassador a letter, we would be grateful. Can you manage it tonight and tell us the results tomorrow first thing, do you think?’  
  
Rea nodded. ‘Sure, sure. We can do that.’  
  
Csevet clapped him on the back in thanks. ‘We’ll make it up to you,’ he said.  
  
‘Boy,’ Rea said, ‘you start doing our work for us and you’ll keel over dead from the strain. Stick to what’s on your own plate.’  
  
Csevet laughed. ‘We’ll hold you to that,’ he said, and left. Good. One less thing to deal with and worry about. Rea was generally uncommunicative and unlikely to let anyone know that Csevet had cleared his schedule for the night, and if he did, no one would think any more of it than Edrehasivar’s secretaries sharing out their workload between them.  
  
The Alcethmeret was mostly empty as he made his way to his room, but Rana, as a courier, wouldn’t stand out to the few who remained. The air was cold, getting noticeably colder the further he went from the kitchens. Csevet tucked his hands into his sleeves, his folio case held close to his body.  
  
Rana was waiting for him in his room, politely avoiding the desk and his work on it to sit again on the bed. He stood up as soon as Csevet entered, closing the door behind him.  
  
‘Csevet,’ Rana said. ‘Art all right? Has anyone hurt thee?’  
  
They embraced; Rana was warm, a solid presence, smelling of sweat, leather, and the soap supplied to the Untheileneise couriers’ wash room. He wasn’t wearing his travelling clothes, and his cloth jacket was soft with wear, the bamboo pattern fading. A pang of nostalgia hit Csevet, and it hurt worse than it usually did.  
  
‘I’m fine; no one’s hurt me. They’re trying to, though, I think.’ Without a second thought Csevet pulled the letter from his case and handed it to Rana, before turning away and falling back on the bed. Rana joined him on the bed, and after a long moment’s hesitation he opened the letter and began reading. Csevet closed his eyes.  
  
‘Who’s seen this?’ Rana’s voice was tight, the underlying emotion hard to pinpoint.  
  
‘Whoever wrote it, and whoever the person who wrote it showed it to. On our end? Me. The pneumatic girls – it’s unlikely. There were dozens of messages and this one looking the least interesting. Rea doesn’t even know how to open letters.’  
  
‘And it couldn’t have been slipped in this end? It definitely arrived through the pneumatic?’  
  
Csevet pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. ‘I don’t know. It just came in with all the other letters to Edrehasivar.’  
  
‘Fuck.’ Rana sat cross-legged, thigh pressed to Csevet’s. ‘Fuck.’  
  
‘Indeed,’ Csevet said, weakly.  
  
‘Hast time still to grab some money and make a run for it.’ Going by Rana’s tone of voice, it was only half joke.  
  
‘I won’t leave–’ _Edrehasivar_ , his mind supplied, ‘everything here. Not after I’ve got this far.’  
  
Rana went silent, as he was prone to do when thinking hard. Csevet left him to it. Here, in this little room with Rana, it almost felt like everything would work out. It wouldn’t, of course, but he could minimise the damage if he worked hard now. Goddesses, he was tired. He could feel himself drifting off to sleep. His body urged him to curl around Rana, let himself be held, just for a little while…  
  
Rana’s hand on his shoulder woke him, and Csevet blinked muzzily. He’d fallen asleep. He hadn’t meant to do that.  
  
‘I don’t know who wrote it,’ Rana said, and the memory of the letter came down and landed on Csevet with a sickening thump. ‘But they got their information from somewhere, and they didn’t just make it up. I didn’t tell anyone about those times with Ithu.’  
  
So, had Ithu then told the letter writer? Or perhaps Ithu had told someone else and they had told the writer. The latter was more likely; Ithu was both fierce and bull-headed in his convictions – one of which being his hatred of the upper classes, and utmost loyalty to other couriers. His passions had been both what had attracted Csevet in the first place, and what had ultimately driven him away.  
  
‘I think Ithu’s told me about old partners,’ Rana said. ‘Nothing bad, just what he liked about them. Things that were really good. And I've heard about what Zhitha's up to third-hand. He always liked to talk conquests.’  
  
‘What?’ Csevet pushed himself up on his elbows. ‘I didn’t know that.’  
  
Rana shrugged. ‘Didst not ask, did thee.’  
  
Csevet groaned and let himself fall back down. ‘So could be anyone with that information, then,’ he said. One of his ears was squashed uncomfortably between the covers and his head, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. The only thing he was learning was that this all had already spun far out of his control.  
  
Rana reached down and ran his fingertips along Csevet’s head, gently freeing his ear.  
  
‘Wilt not be alone,’ Rana said. ‘Salezheio help me, I’ll stay with thee, whatever happens.’  
  
It wasn’t like him to be sentimental. Csevet grasped Rana’s hand, throat tight. ‘What did I do to deserve thee?’   
  
Rana laughed, a soft chuckle, and squeezed Csevet’s fingers between his own. ‘Tomorrow, I’ll find Ithu. I’m sure he’s around. Zhitha might be out, can’t say for sure. Wilt be around tomorrow night again?’  
  
‘Yes, but late,’ Csevet said. ‘This damned bridge. Gods, and don’t make a pun of that, the last thing it needs is thee tempting fate.’  
  
‘It didn’t cross my mind,’ Rana said, dryly.  
  
Later that night, after Rana had left, Csevet took out the letter and burnt it.  
  
  
  
  
  
Despite the plans for the bridge being back in the hands of the universities (‘It should be the other way round,’ Lord Pashavar had said, disgusted, but the united front of Edrehasivar and the universities had been too much for even him to argue against), the deluge of letters coming in had not slowed.  
  
Edrehasivar was meeting his young cousins and Csevet waited for him, slowly sorting the new letters in the Rose Room where Edrehasivar was scheduled to take audiences afterwards. There were several petitioners today, more than usual, so Csevet had made sure to give the one who was known for brevity the last slot and wordier ones before, to minimise the risk of running into lunch. He wondered how Rana was, and whether he’d managed to find Ithu, as he opened another letter. Another person scandalised that the bridge hadn’t just been a bad rumour after all. Csevet jotted down the name and moved on. This time, a letter of superficial support with underlying noises of dissatisfaction. The name of the author was a provincial one, with an unusual spelling; Csevet crossed out his first mistake, then wrote the exact same the second time. He closed his eyes.  
  
‘Csevet?’  
  
Csevet’s head jerked up and he almost broke the pen nib on the desk. Edrehasivar was standing in the doorway, frowning with clear concern, and Csevet could feel himself heat with a bright pink flush.  
  
‘Oh–’ he managed, ‘Serenity, please forgive us! We – um–’  
  
‘We should be the one asking for forgiveness,’ Edrehasivar said, entering the room and sitting down. He was not blushing visibly – Csevet didn’t know if that were possible – but his ears and voice had an abashed tilt to them. ‘We’ve been overworking you.’  
  
Csevet’s lips pulled into a nervous smile, and he couldn’t make them stop. ‘Only as needs must, Serenity,’ he said. He put up one hand in a pretence of brushing some loose strands of hair behind one ear, and with the touch managed to stop his ears from twitching. He glanced at the clock; Edrehasivar was fifteen minutes early.  
  
Csevet glanced at the clock again. A tight, sinking feeling made itself known in his chest. This couldn’t be about the letter. It must be about something else. ‘Helemis should be arriving soon,’ he said, only barely managing to keep his voice neutral. He could tell he was still flushing, but he felt cold.  
  
‘We met him without,’ Edrehasivar said, somewhat wryly, then sobered. ‘But Csevet, we just wanted to ask. That is–’ he hesitated. Csevet’s ears flattened. ‘Are you well? It’s just you seem a little out of sorts, and we were wondering if there was anything we could do. If you needed a holiday, we’re sure we could manage without you for a little while at the very least.’  
  
‘Serenity, thank you,’ he said, and relief like a waterfall, his nervous smile, gods damn it, would not go away. ‘But we are quite all right. An early night or two will be more than enough.’  
  
Edrehasivar didn’t look satisfied, but nodded anyway. Csevet looked down at his work, held his breath for a few seconds, and when he let it out he finally managed to get his expression level. ‘Besides,’ he offered, ‘we would not know what to do with ourselves had we the time. We could travel, but we fear we have worn that one out already.’  
  
Edrehasivar smiled, his ears lifting a little. ‘Yes, we suppose that could happen. Do you not have–’ he hesitated. ‘Are your family and friends all in Cetho? That’s where you were born, isn’t it?’  
  
It was an awkward question, but the odd glow in Csevet’s chest at Edrehasivar having remembered that – an offhand remark made almost a month ago, he was sure, if not earlier – made up for it. ‘Serenity,’ Csevet said. ‘That is where we were born, and lived. But we have little family to visit.’ He attempted to keep his tone if not light then not gloomy, trying what he could to soothe the sensitive topic. ‘Our mother and brother died of pneumonia when we were very little, and our older sister ran away when we were twelve. Eloped, we think, but we were never close, and we don’t think she would have told us even had we been. Our father and his family – we lost contact shortly after becoming a courier. But,’ he continued, somewhat hastily, ‘it’s true that all our friends are in Cetho. In the Untheileneise Court, even.’  
  
‘Oh,’ Edrehasivar said, undoubtedly thinking of the sort of relations he had with his own family, and what death and losing contact meant to him, and Csevet bit his tongue in the struggle not to blurt out, _Serenity, don’t feel bad for us, it really isn’t the same._  
  
‘We would very much like to travel, someday,’ Edrehasivar said, folding his hands neatly in his lap. ‘We didn’t get taught much about the geography of the Ethuveraz when we were young, but since talking to – well, everyone, here – it all sounds so wonderful. Being able to travel so much one is sick of it – we’re very jealous.’ He smiled, although a flicker in his ears showed his uncertainty of that statement. Csevet smiled back, honest, even as knew that from any other person of Edrehasivar’s rank – anyone of even a tiny fraction of Edrehasivar’s rank – such a sentiment would be laughably naive if not downright insulting.  
  
‘In a few years,’ he said, ‘when you’re more established, we don’t see any reason why you couldn’t travel then. Varenechibel made regular visits to his estates across the Ethuveraz. Other emperors before him spent half the summer months journeying between various hosts.’  
  
Edrehasivar blinked, taken aback, as if the notion hadn’t occurred to him before. He must have known about the travels of his predecessors, but perhaps he’d never thought about it with regards to himself. Edrehasivar’s ears lifted, cocking forward. ‘We hadn’t actually considered it,’ he admitted, then added guilty, ‘It must be an absolute nightmare to organise.’  
  
‘It is our job, and even were it not,’ Csevet said, ‘it would be our pleasure.’ His blush promptly returned. Salezheio with ten cocks in her hands, why had he said that? Was it not enough that someone was trying to use his preferences to drive between him and Edrehasivar, that he had to hand them yet more fuel? Csevet looked down at his schedule, avoiding Edrehasivar’s eyes. Still another ten minutes until Helemis’ petition, and it wouldn’t be good to favour the man with inviting him in early. A minute ticked by, filled with an awkward silence.  
  
‘What was your mother’s name?’  
  
The question seemed to come out of nowhere, and Edrehasivar’s voice was casual, but only just. His fingers had twisted themselves together, his eyes lowered.  
  
‘Vetho, Serenity,’ Csevet said, and realised that it was the first time in many years he had spoken her name. ‘Our sister was Eto, our brother Kheilis, and our father Vecha.’  
  
‘We see,’ Edrehasivar said, and didn’t say _thank you_ because that would have been improper, but the smile in his eyes was more than enough.  
  
  
  
  
  
At the end of the day, packing up his papers and blowing out the lamps in the Tortoise Room where he’d remained after Edrehasivar had gone to bed, Csevet went to find Echelo. She had overseen the imperial household for decades, now, and not only was she likely to know the answer, she was also likely to tell him it.  
  
He found her talking to the kitchen staff, reviewing their never-ending complaints – which, this time, seemed to be about an unexpected change in the items delivered to them, and how they couldn't be expected to produce what was asked of them if what they then needed in way of ingredients was not met. Judging by from the unimpressed line of Echelo's mouth and the tilt of her ears, it did not look like these complaints were going to achieve anything. Csevet stood back and watched the kitchen staff realise this one by one.  
  
Eventually she told them all to pack up and leave, which they did, and Csevet stepped forwards from behind the bags of rice to meet her as she left. She quirked an eyebrow at him in askance but didn't question his presence until they were out and alone in the corridor. ‘It’s far past the bedtime of old women,’ she said, dryly. ‘Shame on you for keeping us up.’  
  
Outside the steamy kitchens the cold air from an open window met them like a face-full of icy water. 'Echelo,’ Csevet said, ‘rubbish. If anything, we are a little babe that needs to be put to bed for our afternoon nap.’  
  
Echelo snorted in a particularly unladylike way. Csevet grinned at her momentarily, then said: ‘We just wanted to ask – did Varenechibel ever receive letters from unnamed sources, that criticised him a touch more freely than one would if not unnamed? And what did he do with them?'  
  
Echelo gave him a long look through the corner of one eye. 'Why? Is this a new grievance of Edrehasivar’s?'  
  
Csevet made a neutral noise. 'Not Edrehasivar, no,' he said. 'But couriers occasionally deliver these sorts of things, and we know it’s impossible to trace them back to the author – and not for lack of effort, and misplaced blame. We tried our best to keep out of it; it was none of our business.' Echelo laughed shortly – the idea of something within the domain of messages that wasn't a courier's business. 'But for Edrehasivar,’ Csevet continued, ‘if it were to happen, we wanted to know what Varenechibel’s precedent on it was. We imagine that if he had not restricted it or made it punishable in some way we would have received something by now. But there's been nothing.'  
  
'Well,' she said, 'Talezhis is the one to ask for that. But to our knowledge Varenechibel didn't receive any of those, likely because everyone knew that he would have considered it treason.'  
  
'But how would they have found out the sender?'  
  
'We suspect it would have involved a lot of innocents being caught in the crossfire.'  
  
'Ah,' Csevet said. They walked in silence for a little more. It was late, and he must be leaving Rana and Ithu waiting. Hopefully they had not left already, having somewhere else to be. 'Thank you, anyway.' he said. 'We hope no one catches on that His Serenity will find it hard to continue such a tradition.'  
  
Echelo smiled. 'As do we,' she said, and Csevet knew her sentiment was more for his own sake than Edrehasivar's.  
  
He went back to his room at a brisk walk, only just managing not to trot, and found it empty. He lit the lamp and found a note left on his bed: _couldn't find him, will try again tomorrow_.  
  
Csevet frowned, picked up the note, restlessly tucked it into a pocket before taking it out and throwing it away. Rana's hand, obviously, on the scraps of paper couriers  used as currency almost as much as any other. It wasn't unusual that Ithu had been unobtainable – it was entirely possible he had been sent out of the city and wouldn't be back for days, for though he was predominantly a courier within the Alcethmeret, knowing every door on every corridor and who lived behind each, orders were still orders.  
  
There wasn't much left to do, then. Csevet got changed, blew out the lamp, and slipped into bed, shivering between the cold sheets until his body heat began to warm them. He would have to bide his time and, for now, catch up on some much needed rest. He wished that Rana had stayed, then immediately changed his mind. Better an empty bed.  
  
His room, tucked away in the lower floors of the Alcethmeret, was almost completely silent. A wind was blowing through some cracks somewhere, half whistles, half whispers, and lying in the dark Csevet couldn’t sleep. The thought of the letter prowled like a hunting cat behind his eyelids. What would happen next? And what could he do to stop it?  
  
Edrehasivar, he tried to think about to distract himself, asking the name of his mother and cradling it like a precious stone. His mother, Vetho. He barely thought about her – he had been too young to remember anything save for the vaguest of memories, odd moments and snatches of voice, and his father and sister had never spoken of her after her death. He had the idea that they had never liked her but couldn’t quite tell where that had come from. He had never even considered trying to find the remnants of his family, after all these years.  
  
His friends, then – they were all here within the Untheileneise Court. Rana, of course, and Echelo. Lieutenant Beshelar, a solid friend once the man had got over his initial distrust – all of the nohecharei, in fact, and Csevet wondered, half-dozing, whether they'd been chosen not just for their ability to guard but to get on with other members of Edrehasivar's household as well. Surely a smooth-working household meant more in the defence of the emperor than many other, more showy factors. And although it might not be called friendship, or not yet, Rea was a solid, good man and good company. The Alcethmeret’s pneumatic girls, Hunian and Korian especially, he had a fondness for, hard-working and secretive and loyal.  
  
But then, the thought nagged him, the people he would have called friends five months ago: the others in the courier service he had grown up with and shared hardship after hardship with, as well as the occasional bounty. Thazhio and Volia and Falet, amongst others. Thazhio had sought him out over a month ago and he had been too busy to make time. That had been the last he’d heard of them.  
  
What were they doing now? Were they still surviving?  
  
It was too cold. He couldn’t sleep. He should have made time. What did they think of him now? What would anyone think of him, once this was all over?  
  
The thought of the letter, sneaking up from behind him again. His heart beat faster. What had he been thinking, accepting His Serenity’s offer of personal secretary? This was so far above him it was laughable. He didn’t belong here. He was out of his depth. He was out of his depth and someone was coming to pull him under.  
  
Eventually he fell asleep.  
  
  
  
  
  
The next few days passed like a bad dream. There was less immediate work, what with the decision of the bridge out of their hands for the moment, but Edrehasivar still had to deal with the influx of letters about it, and other offers of architecture that would surely be the next thing to do after the Wisdom Bridge, or the warnings of what architecture would surely be suggested next but was in truth a terrible idea. The Corazhas were arguing about the bridge's budget. It was opera season again and Edrehasivar had been invited to a dozen performances, and when he asked Csevet what one was about, and Csevet could not answer, that night Csevet had found and learnt the schedule of each opera house, and their operas and the operas' plots and symbolism and histories, and the embarrassment burnt in him long after even that.  
  
Rana turned up one night, alone, and told Csevet that Ithu was being abnormally elusive as well as busy, but that he had asked around and there had been no more whispers of discontent at Csevet's status than there had ever been, and none of the other couriers, friends of friends, were admitting at least to any inquiries being made on Csevet.  
  
The next night Rana appeared again, this time with Zhitha in tow, still damp from the road, strands of fine grey hair freeing themselves from his braids to curl around his head like a halo. ‘Rana caught us just as we got back, and filled us in,’ Zhitha said, as he sat on the far end of the bed from Rana, looking uncomfortable. ‘Csevet,’ he said, ‘we are so sorry. They might have got what they have on you from us. We never thought it would matter.’  
  
Csevet shook his head. ‘It shouldn’t have,’ he said. ‘It’s not something any of us could have expected.’  
  
‘But no one has been asking you about him specifically?’ Rana said, and his questioning seemed to make Zhitha look even the more uncomfortable. Csevet wondered if they’d ever met before, beyond what perfunctory encounters were guaranteed within the Untheileneise couriers. He hadn’t been with Zhitha for very long – barely a year, though they’d parted amiably. He suspected that he had been something of a distraction, or a way to reclaim himself, after Zhitha had come back from a delivery with trembling hands and bruised ears.  
  
‘No one,’ Zhithu said. ‘No one seems to even remember we have anything to do with you, Csevet. There was talk a few months ago, of course, but it’s mostly died down.’  
  
After Zhithu had left, promising to pass on anything he heard about Csevet from other couriers, Rana slouched back on Csevet’s bed. ‘I found out why Ithu is being so damn hard to find, anyway,’ he said. ‘Apparently he has a new lover. Been spending every night with him, but disgustingly coy about it otherwise. The others didn’t want to tell me because they said I’d be jealous. Jealous!’   
  
Despite himself, Csevet laughed.  
  
‘He’s spending half his time with the mystery man, and the other half trading paper and ink,’ Rana said. ‘To make money to impress his mystery man, I assume. Maybe if we offered to sell him some paper he might actually deign to turn up. I'm sure thou couldst get the good stuff, yes?’  
  
  
  
  
  
One week after the letter had arrived, Lord Berenar sat in with him and Edrehasivar as they read and reviewed the night's correspondence offerings. Lord Berenar's informal lessons with Edrehasivar were less formal than ever, and had devolved into him merely being present and Edrehasivar asking questions as he thought of them, or from a list in his memory that he saved for the occasion.  
  
Csevet sat opposite Edrehasivar, head down, working silently, and Lord Berenar sat next to him, on his right. The rustle of paper, scratching pens, the crackle of the fire – an occasional frustrated huff of air. For a while they worked in that silence, before a knock on the door announced Talezhis' arrival with a new lot of letters. He placed them in front of Csevet, who was closest, and on top, Csevet saw with a dread feeling, another curled-edge letter with the address in the same hand as the last, fake Netadeise letter.  
  
Lord Berenar was talking, making some remark on the persistence of some people, and Edrehasivar was looking at Csevet, dutifully waiting for him to sort the pile into what to give to who and what to keep. He made no acknowledgement as Csevet slipped the letter from the top over to himself, and then, when occupied with what Csevet had handed him, into his folio case. Csevet’s head was spinning and his skull felt stuffed with wool. Another letter, the perpetrator not satisfied with the lack of response from the last one. Of course it was only to be expected, but he'd hoped, as the days had gone by – but never mind. It was here now. And maybe it would reveal something that the last one hadn't, some new clue or sign. Maybe Rana had found out something more. Maybe Ithu would finally be free to talk to him, or Zhitha had remembered something.  
  
Lord Berenar's time with them almost up, the clock ticking on, Csevet had almost calmed the rapid pace of his heart. He wanted to speak with Echelo again; perhaps he could find time or a suitable excuse to talk to Talezho. His train of thought was broken when Lord Berenar said, conversationally, 'Serenity, we were meaning to ask. Has Dach'osmer Ramaret Netar done something to offend you? We were speaking to him this morning, and he was wanting to know why you were ignoring his letters.'  
  
Edrehasivar looked puzzled. It took a split second before Csevet realised where he knew the name from – Netar. The Netadeise seal. It was the family name the letters had been arriving under.  
  
Every instinct that had let him survive as a courier screamed at him to leave, now, and run. But he wasn't a courier any more. Csevet sat frozen as Edrehasivar told Lord Berenar that he'd never received a letter from any of the Netar. What were the letters about, he asked. Perhaps Csevet would know? His voice was earnest, tinted with honest confusion. Csevet couldn't bear to meet his eyes.  
  
'Ah, yes, Mer Aisava. Perhaps he would, considering that we saw him place a letter with the Netada's seal on it in his bag just now.'  
  
The words hit him and crushed him like rubble. Csevet swallowed, and shook his head. His ears had pinned back as far as they would go.  
  
'Serenity,' he said, and risked a glance up – Edrehasivar's face was puzzled but expectant. He still trusted Csevet; he was waiting for him to sort out the matter. 'Serenity,' Csevet said again, trying to find the words. 'We do have a letter with the Netadeise seal, and we did not show it to you. But – it is because we have received one exactly the same, only days ago, which admitted inside to have forged the seal, and contained... obscenities, Serenity. It was meant to be shocking and uncomfortable, and it had no real worth. That is why we didn't show you this one. If there are letters being sent by Dach'osmer Ramaret Netar, we have no knowledge of them.'  
  
His Serenity's confused frown deepened, but it was open and curious more than anything else. 'Oh,' he said. 'But, where would the letters from the real Dach’osmer Netar be, then? And why on earth would anyone send something like that?'  
  
Lord Berenar held out his hand. 'Mer Aisava,' he said. 'Pass us the letter?'  
  
His voice was solid, uncompromising. Csevet stared at his outstretched hand, heart hammering in his chest. 'We,' he said, thinly, 'do not think it a good idea.'  
  
It was the wrong thing to say. Lord Berenar's eyes hardened. Csevet didn’t dare look at Edrehasivar.  
  
'The letter,' Lord Berenar said.  
  
Csevet took the letter out of his bag; perhaps this one would not incriminate Rana, Ithu and Zathu, only himself. Perhaps it would focus on Rana, Ithu and Zhitha, and not include Edrehasivar. He couldn’t tell which was worse. Mouth dry, Csevet handed Lord Berenar the letter and watched him, unable to look away, as he offered it to Edrehasivar, who opened and read it.  
  
Edrehasivar looked up at Csevet, and his expression was all wrong. It wasn't disgust in his eyes – it was still bewilderment, and confusion, and something like hurt. 'Csevet,' he said. 'We... don't understand?'  
  
‘Serenity?’ Csevet only just managed to speak without his voice cracking. Run, his instincts were screaming. Run. _Run._  
  
‘It’s a letter from Dach’osmer Netar, about the Ezhada’s ironworks.’ Edrehasivar passed the letter to Lord Berenar, who skimmed it with a grim expression. ‘Why did you think it was… something else?’  
  
The floor seemed to be falling away beneath him. So this had been their plan. Stupid. Stupid, fucking useless – he should have seen it. He had done everything all wrong _._ ‘ We swear,’ Csevet said, ‘that what we just said is what we honestly thought. We would never have kept anything from you otherwise, Serenity.’  
  
‘Where is this first letter you received?’ Lord Berenar said, and damn him, and damn the keen light in his eyes as he thought he was helping Edrehasivar.  
  
‘We destroyed it,’ Csevet said. His hands were trembling where he held them under the table.  
  
‘And we suppose no one else knows of it, let alone has seen it.’ Lord Berenar’s voice was triumphant.  
  
Rana, but what good would a courier’s word be? A courier who would be branded as the lover of Csevet, traitor to the emperor, and brought down with him. ‘No,’ Csevet said. ‘No one.’  
  
‘But,’ Edrehasivar said, ‘why not?’  
  
Lord Berenar broke in before Csevet could reply. ‘Serenity, we do not think trying to untangle this rather inventive story will get you anywhere. It is clearly nonsense.’  
  
‘Csevet, why not?’ Edrehasivar said again, louder.  
  
Csevet slid off his chair before he answered, kneeling before Edrehasivar with his head bowed low, bare inches from the floor. ‘Because it concerned certain rumours about us as a courier, and by extension our – preferences, with regards to you, Serenity.’  
  
‘But that‘s absurd,’ Edrehasivar said. ‘Everyone knows those rumours are absurd. Of course you’re not.’  
  
His words should have been a comfort but they weren’t. They hurt.  
  
‘We swear to you, Serenity,’ he said. ‘We have only ever been loyal to you. We swear.’  
  
A silence followed, broken by Lord Berenar. ‘Forgive us for asking, Serenity, but who was it who advised you to choose the Ezhadaise wrought iron?’  
  
‘Csevet did,’ Edrehasivar said.  
  
‘Isn’t it remarkable, then, that the one voice he is hiding from you is the one which has information regarding their unsuitability?’  
  
‘But,’ Edrehasivar said, and faltered.  
  
‘We think it best,’ Lord Berenar said, gently, ‘that you have Mer Aisava arrested now.’  
  
‘No. No, we’re not going to have him – this is clearly some misunderstanding.’  
  
‘Perhaps.’ Lord Berenar’s tone of voice clearly said that he did not think perhaps anything. ‘But for now, whilst we get to the bottom of the matter, it would be best he stay in the Esthoramire. You need not cast judgement beyond that until we–’ he spoke in the plural, ‘have found out the full story.’   
  
Judgement. Would Edrehasivar sentence him to death for treason, as Varenechibel would have done? There was no reason not to. There was no reason for Edrehasivar to ever believe his absurd story. The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity.  
  
‘Fine. Fine. Until we find out what happened,’ Edrehasivar said, in the singular, and Csevet closed his eyes. His forehead bumped against the cold floor, and he didn’t look up as he stood and was escorted out by two guards. He didn’t need to; the pain of betrayal in Edrehasivar’s voice was more than enough.


	2. Chapter 2

The guards had had the decency to tell him, before even unlocking the door, that his case had been reviewed and he was already pardoned, and should arrive for an audience with Edrehasivar at ten o’clock that evening in the Tortoise Room. Csevet stumbled up the stairs into the Alcethmeret twice, and then once more into the kitchens, where he barely had to open his mouth before an alarmed kitchen maid was pressing a jug of water and an apple into his hands. ‘Sit,’ she ordered, and pushed him out of the way and onto a pile of boxes against one wall. ‘Wait here.’  
  
He was – gods, he was tired. He had paced most of the first night, in part to drive away the cold but mostly to rid himself of energy building up inside of him, coiling him up and up until he felt sure he’d break from it. The following day he had stood and waited for word – Edrehasivar would want to speak with him. Would send someone to speak with him. Edrehasivar would not let him rot down here. He’d surely not. Surely not. Please, let him not end here, like this, please.

He'd thought of Edrehasivar's piety and wondered if he could pray to Salezheio, but he didn't know how.

He hadn’t had the stomach to eat the food they gave him, and spent the second night curled up in bed, thinking. If Edrehasivar was not going to pardon him then he was still unlikely to sentence him to death. He would not be able to get back his job as a courier, and the scandal of this would follow him even if he left Cetho, unless he give up his name and went somewhere they would not recognise his face. But without a letter of character, who would employ him? He’d have to start at the bottom and work up. He could do that. He had already perfected a neat secretary’s hand, and could easily prove his ability to transcribe quickly and accurately.  
  
What was the point? He would never want anything other than this, here, and now it was gone. Why even try?  
  
Why bother with becoming a secretary? Why not go somewhere far away where no one would recognise him and whore himself out? He knew how to do that better than being a secretary, it seemed.  
  
In the heat of the kitchen his skin had started to prickle with sweat. Csevet gulped down the water, feeling immediately better after the first mouthful, then sick as the rest of it sat, cold, in his empty stomach. His eyes were dry, his lips cracked, ears drooping no matter how many times he corrected them. Edrehasivar had pardoned him. He couldn’t quite feel relief. His head was spinning. He needed to think, to prepare what he was going to say when he arrived at ten, but he couldn’t. Edrehasivar had pardoned him, so – had something happened? Had he just changed his mind? At least it was only morning. Perhaps he could sleep a little before he had to go up...  
  
Echelo arrived then, her footsteps loud even over the bustle of the kitchen. ‘What in hell’s name do you think you’re doing,’ she said, looking down at him. ‘Come on, up,’ she added, and, when Csevet was too slow for her liking, hauled him up by the arm and herded him out of the door, shooting rapid instructions at the kitchen maids hovering behind her.  
  
‘No one knows what the fuck is going on,’ she said, the expletive startling Csevet. ‘Are you going to tell us just why you were arrested? Or since you’re apparently pardoned now, why sitting around in the kitchens looking like the scullery maids were trying to prove a corpse?’  
  
‘We barely know it ourself,’ Csevet said. ‘We were framed. All in all, quite well.’  
  
‘Not well enough for Edrehasivar not to have a change of heart a couple of days later,’ Echelo said, sourly. They’d reached her private chambers, and she hustled him in and onto a chair. ‘Well?’  
  
He was still holding on to his apple, he realised, and put it down. ‘Edrehasivar received a letter that we opened and read… it was about us. Our preferences and history, written like we were going to sneak into his bedroom at night and rape him. Of course we didn’t show him, and we had no idea who had sent it and why. But another letter with the same hand arrived when Lord Berenar was with us, he saw us hide it, and of course wanted to read it. It was about the bridge; it had information that changed everything – against what we had been advising. There was no way we could defend ourself. Berenar persuaded Edrehasivar to have us arrested. This morning we were informed he had pardoned us. And that is all we know.’  
  
The confession seemed to lift some weight off his chest. Echelo was listening intently, a frown on her face, but no disbelief. ‘We see,’ she said, then paused as a maid came in carrying a tin bath, putting it down in front of the fire and pulling out screens to place around it.  
  
After the maid was gone Echelo continued. ‘Presumably Edrehasivar tried to keep the truth a secret, but now there’s three dozen rumours going around, from a lover’s quarrel to highest treason.’  
  
‘Close, and yet,’ Csevet said, managing a smile. ‘What is the time? We need to be ready to see Edrehasivar by ten.’  
  
‘Ten in the evening, we hope,’ Echelo said. ‘It’s half-nine now.’ The maid returned with two buckets of hot water, which she poured into the tub. A second maid came with two more.  
  
‘In the evening,’ Csevet confirmed. ‘Echelo, this is going to create all sorts more rumours.’  
  
‘Trust us, we know,’ Echelo said. ‘But we’re not going to let you out half-dead like you are now. They’d tear even you apart.’  
  
Csevet laughed, a soft chuckle. ‘We just need some sleep.’  
  
‘You looked like you’d been worked over before you went to prison,’ Echelo said, voice sharp. ‘And now?’ She stood and reached forwards to him, touching his left cheekbone with one fingertip. Csevet flinched and leaned away.  
  
‘As it turns out,’ he said, ‘some of the guards don’t like traitors.’  
  
Echelo pursed her lips, but whatever she’d been about to say was interrupted by the maids with more water. ‘Go on then,’ she said, when they were out. ‘We’re assuming you’re well enough to bathe at least.’  
  
Csevet undressed, glad of the screens to hide his shakiness, and got into the tub. It was barely more than warm, but Csevet was glad of it; even at this temperature his hands and feet felt scalded. As he fumbled with the soap and washcloth, coughing from the heat, a sudden wave of gratefulness overtook him – gods, he would have been a mess in the public baths. He could barely keep his head up and fingers closed around the washcloth. The scratching sound of Echelo writing came to him like a lullaby, and as he bathed he traced over the painted pine trees of the screen with hooded eyes.  
  
The tips of his hair had ended up in the water and proceeded to drip down his back as he got out and dried himself. At some point someone had searched his room for clean clothes and hung them over the screens; Csevet slipped into them, the smell of them familiar, the buttons and ties well-recognised by his fingers. He sat on the floor by the fire and undid the last messy braids of his hair, combing it out with his hands.  
  
‘You’ll be all day like that.’ Echelo said, causing him to startle as she knelt by his side with a brush. She knocked his hands away and without waiting for confirmation ran the brush through his hair. Despite the fact that she was clearly inexperienced, catching an ear in one too harsh stroke and missing half the tangles in the next, too soft, Csevet closed his mouth against any protests; he leant into the strokes, closing his eyes.  
  
Behind him Echelo sighed. ‘Fool,’ she said, softly. ‘You’re going to go straight there and offer yourself up to him again, aren’t you.’  
  
‘Echelo,’ Csevet said, without opening his eyes, laughing out her name pleadingly. ‘He is our emperor. What else can we do?’  
  
‘Oh, don’t play stupid. You know what we mean.’ The tangles were gone and the brush swept through his hair, slow and smooth. ‘There is devotion to your emperor, and there is driving yourself to an early grave because you want to place the stars and moon at his feet every morning. Hire more undersecretaries if you must, direct him to the proper sources for what he wants to know. But it’s not going to end well if you carry on like this. For either of you. ’  
  
‘We shall see,’ Csevet said. ‘We don’t even know what he’s going to say tonight. He very well might be sending us far away, never to set foot here again.’  
  
‘And he’d be all the more poorer for it,’ she said, and after a pause, ‘You’re going to have to do your own hair. We haven’t the faintest.’  
  
As Echelo stood and moved away Csevet managed to force his fingers into doing his hair up in a perfunctory braid. ‘And you still have no idea who sent the letter in the first place,’ she said. ‘You are sure that they meant for you to be seen hiding a letter that you thought was blackmail but was actual important information? It is a convoluted plan.’  
  
‘Yes. We can only assume they had help. Talezhis brought in the letters that day, with that one on top, in plain sight. But he is so old-fashioned, and loyal, and if he were meaning to get rid of me there are a hundred ways less risky to everyone involved, not least Edrehasivar. The same for Lord Berenar, and even more so. He would not resort to that even if he had to.’  
  
‘We shall keep an ear out,’ Echelo said. ‘Though we imagine what Edrehasivar has to say will affect things.’  
  
‘Yes. But for now,’ Csevet said, ’we are going to bed. And pray that whoever’s plan to have us executed for treason will not come find us and stab us in our sleep.’  
  
‘Or wilt not sleep too long and miss thine audience with Edrehasivar,’ Echelo said. ‘I will send someone over at nine, if I haven’t seen thee by then.’  
  
‘Echelo,’ Csevet said. ‘I thank thee. Truly. I–’  
  
‘Save thy sweet words for Edrehasivar,’ Echelo said, shaking her head, but smiling. ‘Get out then, and go sleep. Goddesses know thou needst it.’  
  
The walk to his own room was thankfully a short one, and kinder too than the one from the Esthoramire now he was no longer cold and desperately thirsty. Once back Csevet shed and folded his clothes, and let out his hair, before crawling into bed, falling back on letting his body perform simple routine. The fear of what Edrehasivar might yet say rushed in as he closed his eyes – the need to plan for any possibility – but sleep caught him sooner. He slept soundlessly, motionless, until one of Echelo’s maids knocked on his door at nine o’clock.  
  
  
  
  
  
Csevet entered the Tortoise Room, only waiting long enough to see that Edrehasivar was indeed present, and that the only others were Beshelar and Cala, before dropping to the floor to prostrate himself.  
  
‘Csevet!’ Edrehasivar’s voice was pained, like he suffered a physical wound. ‘Please don’t, oh, goddesses, it should be us bowing to you – Csevet, please stand.’  
  
The rush of relief swept through him like opening a door to a storm; Salezheio’s tits, he told himself, do not cry. He stood, half-way up went light-headed, and stumbled. Hands caught him as he pitched forward–  
  
Csevet jerked back, but the weight and warmth of Edrehasivar’s hands on him remained. There was a single, startled moment in which neither spoke, Edrehasivar’s silver eyes pinned to his own – then Beshelar appeared at his side, steadying him even whilst pulling up a chair for him to sit on.  
  
Csevet sat, too afraid that he’d stumble again, or worse, if he didn’t. ‘They mistreated you,’ Edrehasivar said. He was wringing his hands, and his perfectly manicured nails – it must have been a nightmare for his edocharei to find suitably coloured nail polish, Csevet thought distantly – had ink staining their edges. He wore a jacket of grey-green and embroidered white plum blossom, and his hair was coming loose from its intricate braids. One hairpiece stood at an odd angle.  
  
‘Serenity,’ Csevet said, ‘it was our own disregard.’  
  
‘Your–,’ Edrehasivar said, touching his own cheekbone. Csevet’s hand managed to find its way, without him meaning it to, up to mirror the action. It hurt sharply where his fingertips pressed. He hadn’t realised it had been that bad.  
  
He drew back his hand. ‘It is not so bad,’ he said, for lack of any other platitude.  
  
‘So you say,’ Edrehasivar said. His voice was tight with emotion. ‘But it shouldn’t have happened in the first place. Even just a moment to think over it all and it made no sense; we should have got you out after the first night. We shouldn’t have agreed to send you there in the first place! We let our emotions make a fool of ourself and a victim of you. We should have trusted you, Csevet.’  
  
‘You should trust yourself,’ Csevet said, more firmly than he felt. ‘You are emperor; the choices you make should be with the Ethuveraz as priority, and that was what you did. If we must spend two nights in prison for it, then it was a small sacrifice indeed.’  
  
Edrehasivar laughed, a strangled sound. He turned and paced a line back and forth. ‘Trust ourself? Csevet, we are where we are because of you. We had thought we were getting better at this – but with you gone? Csevet, we couldn’t do it. We weren’t made for this.’  
  
‘Serenity – that’s not true–’  
  
‘And even if you had been guilty! Even if you’d stood in front of everyone and pleaded guilty to highest treason, I could never have condemned you. I was terrified every moment you were–’ Abruptly, Edrehasivar stopped himself. His hands held the back of a chair, knuckles paling from the pressure of his grasp. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, seeming to shrink into himself. ‘I’ve made it all about myself. You were the one who was targeted, sent to prison and hurt, because of me, and I still can’t talk about anything but myself.’  
  
The world seemed to have dislocated itself, changed in an indescribable way, and become dream-like. The man in front of him wasn’t Edrehasivar, Ethuverazhid Zhas, but Edrehasivar someone-else, shaken and frightened and wanting to say – and hear – what was forbidden to His Serenity.  
  
Csevet stood silently, a little nudge between his shoulder blades moving him forwards and giving him strength – in the corner of the room, Cala made a small gesture with one hand. Already backed against the desk, nowhere left to retreat to, Edrehasivar said, ‘Please don’t kneel. Please. Not after I just did you wrong.’  
  
Drawing a shaky breath, Csevet stood in front of Edrehasivar, hands loose at his sides. He was several inches shorter, and so close he had to tilt his head to look Edrehasivar in the eye.  
  
‘Serenity,’ he said, ‘you did me no wrong – not when to blindly follow my word would be to wrong yourself. Serenity, you put your faith in yourself above your trust in me and I would never wish for it to be otherwise.’  
  
‘When it happened – when Lord Berenar was there and accused you of treason – I wasn’t acting on any faith in myself. I thought you’d betrayed me, and it hurt. That’s why I did it.’ Edrehasivar’s voice was half-humour, and half-misery.  
  
‘Anyone with any sense would think my story was utter nonsense,’ Csevet said, firmly. ‘It was ridiculous. And I wouldn’t love you if you were not hurt by betrayal.’  
  
The crackle of the fire was almost entirely drowned out by the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. He couldn’t break eye contact; his whole body seemed frozen in place. Then Edrehasivar laughed, barely a single breath, a warm huff of air that Csevet felt against his skin, and raised his hand to hover over Csevet’s right cheek, the unbruised side. ‘May I?’ he said, little more than a whisper.  
  
Csevet lifted his own hand and laid it across the back of Edrehasivar’s, pressing it down gently to cradle his face. Edrehasivar’s fingers were cold, longer than his own, the tips reaching back to touch the soft skin behind his ear. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ Edrehasivar said with another soft laugh, as his other hand came to rest on Csevet’s upper arm.  
  
‘For someone who claims that a lot,’ Csevet said, ‘you are remarkably effective.’ He leant forwards and Edrehasivar slid his hand back to cradle the base of Csevet’s skull, pulling Csevet closer still with his other hand on Csevet's back, until they were pressed together. Moving his hands to Edrehasivar’s waist, Csevet breathed, long and slow. The scent of musk and bitter almonds from Edrehasivar’s clothes and hair enveloped him. At once it seemed that this was correct and how the world was meant to be, and also that this was a fantasy and would shatter if he dared close his eyes too long.  
  
‘Csevet?’ The heat of Edrehasivar’s breath tickled Csevet’s ear, which flicked. ‘What do we do now?’  
  
‘We carry on,’ Csevet said. ‘As normal.’  
  
Edrehasivar didn’t reply immediately, seeming to wait and let the words sink in. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, then sighed. ‘You’re no longer under charges of treason but I didn’t give you your job back. I will, when this is all cleared up, but I didn’t want to just hand Lord Berenar any more reason to suspect you. And you need the time to recover.’  
  
‘Serenity.’ Csevet said in agreement. The thick fabric of Edrehasivar’s clothes, silk and wool and embroidery, made him want to burrow beneath them and touch the skin they hid. ‘What changed your mind?’  
  
‘Dach’osmer Netar’s letter turned out to have been sent days ago; someone must have stalled it until Lord Berenar was there,’ Edrehasivar said. ‘That was the main thing. Otherwise, it just didn’t add up. Simply not giving me Ramaret Netar’s letters would never have worked. And if you had done it you’d have planned it far in advance, and had a better excuse than the one you did.’  
  
Csevet laughed into Edrehasivar’s collar. ‘I felt like I was going insane, when I said it.’  
  
Another pause. ‘You could have shown me,’ Edrehasivar said. ‘I wouldn’t have held it against you.’  
  
‘It was not that simple.’ Csevet shifted in Edrehasivar’s grip. ‘It had the names of my previous lovers in it… I did not want them to be brought down with me. To be tied to a scandal like this might mean they could never gain real employment again.’  
  
‘What did it say?’ Edrehasivar asked, then immediately after: ‘I’m sorry. If you don’t want to, don’t answer that.’  
  
‘I think you deserve to know.’ Csevet pulled away a step, head lifted to look Edrehasivar in the eye, his hands remaining on Edrehasivar’s waist. ‘It was written as a warning, hardly eloquent. It said I was marnis, and listed my lovers, and because all of them are at least part goblin, it said you were in danger also.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Whether I was going to seduce you or attack you it did not seem sure.’  
  
‘Your lovers?’  
  
‘Most of the letter was concerned with them; it was only short. Rana, my first, still my close friend. I was with Ithu several years ago, and on occasion since, though not recently. Not whilst I have been your secretary. And Zhitha, for a little while between Rana and Ithu. ’ Behind him, Beshelar made a small noise, an intake of breath. Edrehasivar didn’t even seem to notice. After a moment he pulled Csevet close again, and Csevet let him.  
  
He didn’t know why he’d named them, except that he wanted to prove to Edrehasivar his belief in him. Open himself up and offer himself and let Edrehasivar choose whether to break anything inside. It terrified him. And he was playing with not just his own life, now.  
  
  
  
  
  
When he returned it was to an empty room. Rana, if he’d been there, had not left a note. Csevet couldn’t tell if he was pleased or disappointed; he was bone tired, and as much as he wanted to reassure Rana of his well-being, there was little he could think of but sleep. He barely managed to hang his clothes up before he dropped into bed.  
  
When someone knocked on his door, two hours later, he barely woke. The knocking grew louder, then stopped, and whilst he lay there, only half-awake, the door opened. At that Csevet stumbled up out of bed, squinting in the light of the lamp his visitor carried with them, alertness coming to him like a lightning strike – a weapon, he needed a weapon, anything to defend himself with – but it was Beshelar who stood there, hesitating in the doorway until Csevet motioned him in.  
  
‘Forgive us,’ Beshelar said.  
  
‘For the hour, or for opening our door yourself before we could even get out of bed?’ Csevet said, willing his heart to stop racing as he rubbed his eyes and offered Beshelar the chair at his desk, which he refused politely.  
  
‘Both,’ Beshelar said, and his expression was closed off. ‘We were worried when you did not answer. But for the hour – we just finished our shift. Your old lover, Zhitha. Is it Zhitha Uildan?’  
  
‘Yes,’ Csevet said. The room seemed a lot colder all of a sudden, the walls darker, more oppressive. ‘Why?’  
  
Beshelar looked away, then back at Csevet, meeting his eyes. ‘When you were in the Esthoramire, he was found with a necklace that had been reported stolen.’  
  
‘Oh,’ Csevet said. He barely heard himself. ‘When…?’  
  
‘He was hanged this morning.’  
  
Csevet’s throat seemed to have forgotten how to work. He nodded, the action small and jerky.  
  
Beshelar was standing stiff and straight, the line of his mouth helpless, muted anger, tightly controlled. ‘We had thought you would want to know–’ for a moment, Csevet thought he would say, _from a friend_ , but Beshelar continued, ‘as soon as possible.’  
  
‘Thank you,’ Csevet managed, and the rest of it jumbled up and wouldn’t come out.  
  
‘We are sorry,’ Beshelar said, losing his parade rest, eyes softening to grief over anger.  
  
Shaking his head, Csevet took a couple of unsteady breaths. ‘It is fine,’ he said, trying to smile and failing. ‘We are couriers, after all. It is to be expected.’  
  
‘You are not a courier,’ Beshelar said, in a strange voice. Csevet shook his head.  
  
'Thank you,’ he said again. His eyes were burning, not just from exhaustion, and Beshelar took his cue and left. Csevet shut the door behind him with a snap, and curled back up in bed, bone-tired, sick with grief. He dreamt of an argument he and Ithu had had, long ago.  
  
He woke the next morning in a panic, struggling with the sheets to get up. Zhitha had been targeted deliberately, that much was obvious. Who next, then? If it was a warning, or done in spite, then why would they stop at him? What if Rana was already dead, too?  
  
Stinking gods, he was a fool. Why hadn’t he acted sooner? Why the fuck had he just gone back to sleep?  
  
People were looking at him as he ran down the servant’s corridors to the pneumatic station, but he didn’t bother slowing. What would he do if Rana were in danger, arrested, waiting to hang? He could ask Edrehasivar to pardon him – could he? Edrehasivar would agree, but it’d be taking advantage of him, and Edrehasivar would know it. Csevet would become the manipulative one they’d all accused him of being in the first place.  
  
But, for Rana?  
  
What would he do if Rana were dead?  
  
Hunian was on duty, sitting and waiting with her chin on her hands. She sat up when she saw him, and he barely managed to say, ‘Have you any letters for us?’ before she was reaching down and pulling out a single letter for him.  
  
It was in Rana’s hand, though messier than normal. Csevet imagined, for a single, wild moment, that if he held it to his face he would be able to smell Rana on it, too. He broke open the unmarked wax as Hunian said, ‘He came down here day before yesterday, in a rush. Said he had a job he couldn’t miss, and you shouldn’t worry about him.’  
  
_Tell me art safe as soon as canst. They’re going to kill Zhitha._  
  
Csevet read it, then again, then tucked it into his jacket pocket. So he was fine as of two days ago. That didn’t mean much; they could still attack him on the road, or tamper with his belongings whilst he was out.  
  
Hunian was looking at him oddly. ‘Don’t worry,’ Csevet said, ‘We won’t be asking for anything of Edrehasivar’s. Just this.’  
  
She was too good to let her expression reveal anything, but Csevet thought it was probably relief on her face. He needed to ask what his position was, formally speaking, if only so he wouldn’t alarm everyone around him.  
  
He needed to tell Edrehasivar about Zhitha; he deserved to know everything. And Ithu...  
  
Outside the pneumatic station Csevet stood facing a window, watching people cross the courtyard below through the drops of rain hanging on the glass. The air leaking in was bitingly cold, and damp. Zhitha was dead, hanged yesterday morning. Was it Zhitha, then, who had told the letter writer about Csevet, and the writer had wanted him silenced? In that case, unless Zhitha had been deliberately withholding information from Csevet, the writer was not someone Zhitha remembered as suspicious in their questioning. Except it could be that the information was got through a third party who was selected as not to be suspicious, in which case the writer could be anyone, still.  
  
Except what did it matter, because Zhitha had been hanged yesterday morning, and it was Csevet’s fault.

 

The winter had never bothered him, before. Now the cold and wind seemed to cut him.  
  
He should write a message back to Rana, reassuring him, except that he’d forgotten to bring any paper and he was already imposing on the pneumatic girls by asking them to pass personal messages. He should talk to Edrehasivar, except that he didn’t know when was a good time, and he really shouldn’t burden him any more than he was already.  
  
The night before seemed like a dream, a fantasy made up on the edge of sleep. Three women in long blue dresses and fur-lined coats were hurrying outside, keen to be back indoors. One woman dropped her muff and the others hurried on without her as she backtracked to pick it up. He was shivering. He didn’t know what to do.  
  
‘Csevet!’  
  
Csevet startled badly, turning to see Rea at the foot of the stairs. ‘Oh!’ Rea said, seemingly equally started at Csevet’s reaction. ‘Your face. Is it..?’  
  
‘It’s fine,’ Csevet said. ‘An accident.’ He forced himself to smile. ‘How are you?’  
  
‘Us? We’re fine. But what about you? What on earth is happening?’ Rea said, as he went into the pneumatic station and picked up Edrehasivar’s letters. Csevet trailed in after him, then walked with him back up the stairs.  
  
‘A mistake, rather embarrassingly,’ Csevet said. ‘It’s still being sorted out – we’re not entirely sure what we can say, right now. But we’ve been told we’ll be back in with you as soon as it’s over.’  
  
‘That’s good to hear,’ Rea said honestly, though clearly disappointed about Csevet’s reticence. ‘Talezhis won’t be pleased, but when is he ever, these days?’  
  
Csevet made a noise of agreement. A beat of silence. ‘How is your work?’  
  
‘More of the same. No one wants to move, everyone wants to complain. We found an empty room where some romantic is holding base. At least that’s what we think. Sheets and sheets of scrap paper, and an empty fireplace covered in ash. He must be trying to compose poetry.’  
  
‘We see.’ He’d meant to ask about Edrehasivar’s schedule, try and work out when would be best to slink in, but – ‘Rea, which room is that?’  
  
Rea hesitated. ‘It’s in the tower wing,’ he said. ‘On the second floor, in the Laterada’s old apartments. Do you know the one...?’  
  
‘Yes,’ Csevet said, as he stopped walking. ‘We do.’  
  
What good had planning done him? His best efforts had sent him to prison and got Zhitha killed. He turned. ‘Thank you, Rea,’ he said. ‘We just remembered we have somewhere to be.’  
  
Rea was calling back down after him but he didn’t stop to listen. In the tower wing, on the second floor – he hadn’t been there for years, for a simple reason: couriers didn’t deliver messages to places no one lived. Or, where no one lived, officially speaking.  
  
If one had no privacy in their own quarters to forge seals and practice writing in someone else’s hand, then here was privacy, easily taken.  
  
The hallways of the tower wing were shuttered and empty, cold, dark, quiet. Csevet’s footsteps seemed ruinously loud, but then, so did the beat of his own heart in his chest. It felt like a small age to reach the correct hallway, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled with the certainty of that moment being the one where he was caught. There was no one other than him in the long hallways as he found the safest route, going through the servants' doors, up the cold, bare stone stairs and exiting out into the public corridor. If he remembered correctly the Laterada’s apartments were the last on the south end, and yes – here were footprints in the dust, more so than in the other doorways.  
  
It took him only a few moments to pick the lock of the front door and slip in. The receiving room was dark – again, shutters had been closed over the windows, and curtains drawn over the shutters. There were a couple of pieces of furniture left, a chaise lounge and cards table by the looks of it, each covered by a thick grey cloth, and nothing else save dust. The parlour would be to the right, with the bedrooms, and the dining room and study to the left, through the double doors. Csevet hesitated. If there were someone inside now, they’d know he was there, and if he went the wrong way they could slip out behind him. Or they could ambush him.  
  
It was also true that there was no guarantee they had not left and would never come back – now they’d written and sent their letters there wasn’t any need, except perhaps to clear up after themselves. Or to hide from people still looking for them.  
  
Csevet locked the door behind him and heaved the chaise lounge in front of it, and the cards table in front of the servants’ door on the other side of the room. Then he went to the dining room and study, wincing as the heavy doors creaked open, opening the curtains in a cloud of dust that made him cough. The search didn’t take long; the dining room and study were even more empty than the receiving room, the only item left being a single frame propped up in the hallway, contents shrouded from view. The bedrooms had more furniture: a bed in each, and dressing tables, and wardrobes. Csevet searched them all, peeling back the covering sheets and opening the wardrobe doors, but found nothing. The parlour contained a small table and chair, out from under their covers, cleaned of dust. The table was littered with scraps of paper and used blotting tissue.  
  
Most of the paper had writing on it, cast-offs with mistakes or splattered ink, from a dozen different hands. Some of the writing was half-way familiar, distorted to varying degrees. Csevet recognised it instantly.  
  
Disappointment ran through him, a sort of grief, numb on the surface, and beneath it – he left the table with its paper and went back to the receiving room, returning the furniture to where they’d been when he’d entered. Then he sat down, hidden from the door by the chaise lounge, legs crossed and head tilted back against the wall. It was hard to tell the time in the dark; Csevet closed his eyes and tried not to think.  
  
Similar to his own room, he couldn’t hear much. A bell, tolling the hour. Rain, gentle against the glass.  
  
Perhaps he should have brought water with him. His head pounded, but he couldn’t leave now. He wondered if Rana was back. If Rana was still alive. What Edrehasivar was doing. Perhaps, sitting here in the dark, he was waiting for no reason. It would be ironic indeed if he were found here by someone with legitimate purpose in these apartments, and it was used as proof of his guilt after all…  
  
But, assuming everything did go well, what then? Echelo was right, but he was hardly going to take her advice now. Not when he and Edrehasivar had spoken as they had, and acted as they had, and Csevet still couldn’t stop half-persuading himself it had been a dream and nothing more.  
  
Emperors had lovers besides their wives, everyone knew that. But for Edrehasivar, born in the wrong skin, wrong-footed before he’d ever stepped in the Untheileneise court, making enemies as fast as he made allies – no one approved of baseborn Csevet as a secretary. Who would approve of him as a lover? What more problems would he cause?  
  
Time crept on. How long would it take before he gave up? It was night, pitch black, his legs were numb and his head aching fiercely. What if he were wrong?  
  
A noise outside – Csevet’s eyes flew open, his whole body tensing. Something scratched at the lock, a light shining from beneath the door. Csevet swallowed, suddenly, horribly aware of how ill-prepared he was for a confrontation. His breathing was loud, rasping, would surely give him away, but when he tried to calm it it only got worse. His hands were clenched in the fabric of his trousers.  
  
The door opened and Csevet had to close his eyes against the brightness of the lamp the person was carrying. He froze, waiting with absolute certainty that he’d be seen, but after an agonisingly long moment in which the door was locked again, the light of the lamp retreated and Csevet managed to squint just enough to see it disappear into a bedroom. After a moment of silence he got up, leaning heavily against the wall as his legs protested, and waited just long enough to push back the pins and needles before going and standing in the bedroom doorway.  
  
‘Good evening, Ithu,’ he said, voice rough.  
  
Ithu, lying on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, didn’t react for a long moment. Then he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. ‘Fuck,’ he said, conversationally. ‘You really are a rat, aren’t you. Jumped ship, now you’re everywhere you’re not wanted.’  
  
His pale orange eyes were baleful and cold, but Csevet knew that meant he was truly angry. Good. Let him be angry, because the fury inside Csevet was bubbling up and he couldn’t ignore it any more.  
  
‘We always knew you were a backstabber,’ Csevet said. ‘But we hadn’t pegged you as a murderer, too.’  
  
‘You’re talking about yourself? Or Zhitha? Because everyone knew he was a stupid little thief, and it was only a matter of time–’  
  
Csevet barely registered he was moving, not until he stood in front of Ithu, one hand clenched in the collar of his shirt, the other balled into a fist to punch him in the face – then punch him again, then again, until as he let go of Ithu’s collar Ithu grabbed his hand and broke his middle finger with an audible crack.  
  
The shock of it made Csevet step back, pull away even as Ithu clung onto his finger, twisting it further. They broke apart, Csevet clutching his hand to his chest, and Ithu wiping a trail of blood from his split lip.  
  
‘Why?’ Csevet’s head swam. He was panting hard. ‘Why are we so repulsive for wanting a better life for ourself?’  
  
‘By licking the boots of people who treat us like dogs?’ Ithu’s voice was a snarl. ‘You say we killed Zhitha, but you know who really did it, and you’re no better than them. Don’t you remember what happened to Pera? Vithirian? What about Uralis? Or are you too good to care about the likes of us, now? Fuck, don’t you remember Eshoravee?’  
  
‘Don’t dare bring them up,’ Csevet said, speaking through bared teeth.  
  
Ithu curled his lip in disgust. ‘Why? Now you’re on their side, you don’t even want to hear our names? Did you also forget we’re people?’  
  
Csevet lunged for him, managing to push him back and strike his head against the wall, but Ithu got a foot between them and pushed him away, knocking him down and kicking him in the back of his head as he scrabbled to get up, hampered by the broad sleeves of his jacket.  
  
‘You should have died,’ Ithu snarled. ‘You should have died knowing it was your fucking master throwing you out like rubbish.’  
  
It wasn’t worth arguing, Csevet knew from experience, and more than that, as he picked himself up, he kept his mouth tight shut as his stomach bucked and threatened to throw up its contents. His breath whistled through his nose.  
  
‘Salezheio, you’re disgusting.’ Ithu stepped towards him and Csevet backed away, not quick enough to dodge; Ithu grabbed him, fisting a hand in his hair, yanking his head up. With his free hand he pulled a knife from his belt.  
  
Csevet got a foot between Ithu’s and with his whole weight twisted, bringing them both down, and with his hands clutching at Ithu’s face, smashed his head to the floor.  
  
Ithu’s hands went lax, falling from Csevet’s hair and dropping the knife, which Csevet kicked away as he stumbled up. He hurt, his whole chest, pain curling around his ribs like a whip, burning in agony, wet – blood. Ithu wasn’t moving, and Csevet staggered away from him, falling to his knees on the other side of the room, curling up. Oh, gods, fuck, it hurt – he bit back a strangled cry, grinding his teeth, his hands clutching at the torn fabric of his shirt.  
  
Ithu moved, and Csevet turned to look, but it was only to shift his head, gagging softly a few times before falling still again. The blood running down Csevet’s hands was hot, sticky, and Csevet’s breath was broken cries as he managed first to shrug out of his jacket, then tie it by the sleeves around his chest to make an improvised bandage. He fumbled with it; the first attempt was far from tight enough, slipping down to his waist, and in the second attempt he blacked out for a moment as he forced the knot tighter. Leaving red handprints on the floor he crawled to a stand, and picking up Ithu’s lamp he stumbled out of the bedroom. Back in the receiving room Csevet rattled on the door for a moment until he remembered it was locked.  
  
He almost swore, but his chest burnt with pain as he panted for breath, open-mouthed and rapid, ribs constricted by the bandage. He leant forwards, head knocking against the door. He couldn’t pick the lock, not with a broken finger and hands half-numb from the cold. The servants’ door, then.  
  
It wouldn’t open. Csevet shoved at it, putting his whole weight behind him, but the door wouldn’t move. He ran a hand around the doorframe and found a wedge pushed in at the top, but when he tried to pull it out his head swam until he couldn’t bear to stand upright – crouching, hands braced against the door, he dry heaved uncontrollably and sobbed for breath in-between.  
  
He needed to stand – stand up, he told himself, and knew that if he lay down he would not be able to get back up again. His body wouldn’t work. His legs were too weak. He couldn’t seem to see very well, despite the lamp. Either it had stopped raining, or he couldn’t hear the sound of it any more.  
  
Salezheio’s tits, he didn’t want to die here, trapped, like this. He forced himself to get up, leaning heavily against the door, and inching his hands up he tried the wedge again. Head pressed to the door, eyes tight shut, he found the wedge with his fingertips and pulled at it. It remained stuck. He fumbled, tried again, digging his fingernails in until he felt they’d tear away from the strain of it.  
  
Csevet’s knees buckled and he landed on the floor in a burst of agony, crying out. He curled, knees to his forehead, clutching his hands to his chest.  
  
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get up again. The blood was soaking his clothes, wet and cold and sucking against his stomach, slowly reaching down his trousers to his hips. He still couldn’t breathe properly. When would they find his body? It wasn’t as if anyone came here with any regularity. Csevet moaned through his teeth, half wanting Ithu to come find him and finish the job, put him out of his misery. He’d failed everything. He should have trusted Edrehasivar, showed Edrehasivar the letter from the beginning. He should have realised who’d sent it sooner. Maybe then Zhitha would be alive, and he wouldn’t be here, slowly dying.  
  
He realised he was crying, hot on his cold face. He’d failed but he still really didn’t want to die.  
  
The night crept by, and Csevet drifted in and out of unconsciousness. The morning arrived, barely present in the shuttered room. He saw by the lamplight that the wallpaper was patterned with golden cicadas, and there was a portrait of a woman still hanging over the window, looking away. There were birds outside.  
  
The door opened and Csevet’s eyes opened fractionally to see three pairs of feet in front of him. He closed his eyes again and listened to sound of movement as the men searched the rooms then returned.  
  
‘Fuck,’ one said, mildly. ‘Should we fetch a doctor?’  
  
‘This is him, right?’ another man said. ‘Gods’ balls, what happened?’  
  
‘Fuck knows. No one even knows why he was arrested. They say he’s got His Serenity wrapped ‘round his little finger,’ the first said, and the third made a sharp noise, but whether it was in laughter or warning Csevet couldn’t tell. ‘Yeah, he’s the one, Edrehasivar's secretary. Don’t know about the courier. Dead anyway, not like we can do anything. Leave him behind.’  
  
A pause. ‘We’ll go get a stretcher,’ one of the men said, and the sound of his footsteps leaving travelled to Csevet through in the floorboards. He fell back into unconsciousness soon after.  
  
  
  
  
  
Csevet dreamt of being swept downstream. He braced his feet against the current and the current swept something out from inside of him. He woke.  
  
He was in bed, lying on his back. Someone stood over him, in maza’s robes – Kiru. She smiled tiredly at him as she moved away.  
  
‘Csevet,’ Edrehasivar said, voice cracked, barely louder than a stage whisper. ‘Welcome back.’


End file.
